Gideon has rules in place, one of which is to not fuck anyone we work with—which is the only reason I haven’t visited my dick upon Perla.
She’s pretty. Blonde. Gorgeous. Red lips that would look good around my cock.
ButI can find sex anywhere, without having my brother thrash the living daylights out of me for it.
Perla just stands there, fluttering her eyelashes.
“Perla,go!”
She straightens, flustered, and leaves.
I open the envelope and scan the contents into view using my phone.
My pulse doesn’t quicken. It used to, when I first returned from the military, but now, it’s just consumption, like air, water, food, and sex. You don’t get excited about it. You just use it to sustain yourself.
One photograph. A brief dossier. A burner number. And a name.
Calista Ferraro.
Olive skin, dark hair, green eyes.
Looks sweet. Probably isn’t. They usually aren’t when they’re marked for death. Beautiful, though, but then your looks don’t exempt you from having a contract put on you.
I read further for instructions.
Needs to look like an accident. No police investigation.
I then scan everything with my eyes—photographic memory comes in handy for someone like me.
I start with her face. That’s the ritual. Not because I want to get to know the target, but because if I don’t know what they look like for sure, I might hesitate.
And hesitation is how you die in this business.
I use one of Logan’s programs to erase the file from existence, and then burn the card and envelope with my gold lighter, which belonged to my grandfather, the man whotriedto raise us, and drop it, still burning, into the metal waste bin.
I get on with my day job—like I won’t be spending the night following my prey, finding her weaknesses.
It’s nearly four when my phone beeps with a summons from Gideon.
He is already pouring himself a drink when I step into his office.
“Scotch?” he offers without looking up.
“It’s early,” I object.
He smirks. “Then I’ll have yours, too.”
I close the door and sit across from him. The view from his floor wraps around Manhattan like a silk rope—luxurious and suffocating in equal measure.
He eyes me over the rim of his glass. “Are you going away for a while?”
I don’t know how he does it, but whenever I get a contract, he knows.
“No.”
“Lucian,” he says my name, like a warning.
I lean back in the chair. “We have a thing.”
